The Faded River
The pen in your hand is a heavy, brass thing, cold to the touch, and you are holding it over a sheet of paper that trembles under your grip as if it were a living thing about to flee. You are Elias, forty-two years old, a tenured historian who has spent the last decade curating the past into neat, defensible boxes, and you are currently sitting in a study that has become a prison of your own...
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